


The Holmes Type

by LaChatteNoire



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondlock, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaChatteNoire/pseuds/LaChatteNoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time John returned home to find Mycroft sitting in his chair, he knew it was either very bad news or (even worse) an invitation to Christmas dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: laughter-silvered-wings

Chapter 1: in which John finds out more than he probably ever needed to about the Holmes family, mainly that there are more siblings

 

When John walked into the living room of 221B to find Sherlock and Mycroft sitting on the opposite-facing armchairs and having a glaring contest, he knew that an argument over Mycroft’s request was imminent.

“I. won’t. go.” Sherlock grit out. Mycroft’s expression remained stoic, but his tone was put-out and menacing. “You did not go last year, and everyone was asking about you. If you care about her at all—”

“I won’t go.” What the brothers did not say out loud, they communicated through the twisting and wrinkling of their lips; John saw from Mycroft’s stiff, jutting mouth that he was barely able to restrain himself from throttling his brother.

“That you would not go to your own sister’s—”

“Sister?” John echoed, and the two men turned to face him, startled that he was even in the room. John glanced at Mycroft and tilted his head, demanding an answer. 

“Our sister, Vesper Holmes, also known as Vesper Lynd. She died in Venice a year ago. She was Sherlock’s twin sister.”

_Sister. Twin sister_. John felt his stomach flipping in his abdomen; Sherlock’s twin? A female Sherlock? Oh, God…

Mycroft stood up, calmly gathering his things and twirling his omnipresent umbrella. “And the closest he ever had to a friend. When he was too much for everyone else, they would call her to go to him. I expect to see you and John tomorrow afternoon at her memorial service.” The door shut with a soft click, and John watched as Sherlock nonchalantly rose from his seat to take out his violin.

“Sherlock.” The detective acted as if he did not hear John, and took out his violin with care.

“Where is her memorial service?” John asked, as his voice was almost drowned out by the instrument’s vibrations.

“Sherlock.” More music, much louder.

“Sherlock!” John wants to snatch that violin out of his hands and break it. But, Sherlock would likely maim him before he could even get close to it.

Abruptly, Sherlock stops playing and sets down the bow. “We’re not going.”

“She is—was—your _sister_ , Sherlock—your _twin_ sister! Did you even go to her funeral? Not even to a memorial—!” John forced himself to stop; he was going too far, he had to admit. He didn’t have a twin, but he and Harriet had been immensely close during their childhood, with an age difference of a little more than one year, and to think that she may suddenly die and he wouldn’t go to honor her memory…

Maybe this was why he always helped and stayed in contact with Harriet, despite her struggles. Their bond was forged from family, and ballasted by friendship. Like Mycroft said, Vesper was the closest that Sherlock ever had to a friend while he was growing up; he must have had a very lonely childhood except for her company and although John couldn’t picture it, he was sure that Sherlock would have turned out worse if it had not been for Vesper.

“Stop canonizing her, John.” Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes. John had a sixty-foot tall billboard across his face, filled with praises for Saint Vesper.  

_“She is such an angel to put up with that boy.” “I swear, if you didn’t tell me they were twins…” “Well, we know which twin is the good one.” “Vesper is such a sweet girl, and a wonderful student. Sherlock…well…”_

“Why won’t you go?” Sherlock looked away, stoic, so John cannot see his eyes glaze over.

John regarded Sherlock for a long time. Vesper was family, and she had died. You go to events to honor their memory or to pay your respects, and granted that the Holmes family did not seem to be any sort of normal but the death of family should elicit that specific, innate, grieving response.

And then, John’s thought—

No.

No, that is not possible. Even if this was Sherlock Holmes, who pushed the limit on what could be classified as human, John knew—he just _knew_ —that Sherlock was incapable of that degree of callousness. And after all Vesper must have done for him, there is no way—it is not possible.

“I’ve made my decision, John, and you will not convince me otherwise.”

“How can you possibly not go?”

“I can’t.”

John didn’t bother to stifle his laugh. “You haven’t had a case in days, and the worst crimes that you can find this time of year are petty theft and vandalism. It hardly takes a genius to catch them. Sherlock, we are going.”

“No.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, she was your sister! She must have loved you, so much!”

“It’s not because I didn’t love her that I won’t go.” Sherlock snapped, and swiftly glided past John to signify that the conversation was over.

 

* * *

 

Yet somehow, John and Mycroft had wangled Sherlock into returning to his childhood home to attend the memorial. The Holmes estate was a modest one, with a light grey two-floor house and simple yet elegant gardens encased in the iron fence demarcating the property. Sherlock surveyed the property with a slightly upturned nose, “Nothing has changed.”

He led John through the front door and into the grand reception room, which was already packed with white-haired and black-clad people mingling and murmuring. When Sherlock swept in, the murmuring stopped for a few seconds before the room buzzed again with huffs of indignation and whispers of consternation.

John turned his attention back to Sherlock long enough to see a petite woman in a black gown embrace Sherlock. Sherlock managed to keep a warm but insincere smile as the woman—who looked like she was Mrs. Hudson with fifteen years added onto her—patted his arms and fussed over his scarf. Sherlock turned back to John and gestured towards him, the woman’s line of sight following the detective’s hand to the doctor and her eyes lighting up. Gracefully, the pair moved towards him until John was looking down at the glowing face of Mummy Holmes.

“And this must be Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” She began to giggle, her cheeks filling with pink. John took her hand.

“It’s an honor, Mrs. Holmes.” And Mrs. Holmes giggled as if she were a debutante in bloom. It was definitely from her that Sherlock had received his verdigris eyes, and the rest of her exuded the air of a dignified matron who had aged gracefully from being the most exquisite woman in all of England (just don’t say that in front of the queen).

“Oh, Sherlock, you have such a good one.” She snuck glances back at John, her entire comportment radiant. “Now, I expect for you to register as soon as possible so I can start preparing the guest list; you know, we’ve all waited a long time for this. I wholly approve, and don’t worry; I will put in a few phone calls and the church will have no say—.” On and on she went exuberantly, Sherlock snuck a ‘run’ glance at John, and John found himself wandering towards the portrait of Vesper Holmes hanging to the left of the room’s fireplace.  

Vesper Holmes stood in the middle of an amber room for her portrait, wearing a simple floor-length Aubergine gown. Her dark curls were pinned up and then allowed to fall and frame her face, the dark purple of her gown and her black hair making the hue of her jade-green eyes even more intense. Around her neck she wore an opal pendant—a family heirloom, John learned later on—and her arms relaxed at her sides. Her eyes were solemn, yet a glint of mischief ran through them that others could not help but come take a closer look. This was Sherlock’s other half.

“I can see—.” John turned to his left, and froze. It seemed that Sherlock had aged in reverse into the vibrant, brunet youth standing at his side.

The young man sighed, never taking his eyes off of the portrait. “She loved us all, and the world very much. I think she was the most normal of all of us, and that’s why mother adored her.”

He turned towards John, his eyes shine with recognition. “Doctor Watson.” His voice had the same rich tone as Sherlock’s, albeit at a slightly higher pitch. “I’m such a fan of your blog.”

“Uh—thank you…” John managed to regain his voice.

“Geoffrey Holmes. Please excuse me, Doctor, I’m not normally like this. It’s so wonderful to meet you.” Geoffrey held out his hand and shook John’s. John let his hand be moved as Geoffrey pleased, trying to accomodate the shock of having met two more Holmes siblings. 

“Thank you, same to you. I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”

Geoffrey turned back to Vesper’s portrait, looking at his sister wistfully. “She died while I was caught up in training. I didn’t find out for nearly a month after it.”

“Training? What for?”

“The government.” The secretive smile that Geoffrey then gave told John that the rest was classified information.

Geoffrey seemed to notice someone to John's off-right. “If you would please excuse me, Doctor Watson, there is something I need to attend to. It was wonderful talking with you.”

John managed to stumble through a ‘good day to you’ before Geoffrey nodded and strode away.

 

* * *

 

_It should have been you._

_Why are you here?_

_You do not belong here._

_Vesper deserved better._

Sherlock did not even need to observe to know what the attendants were thinking. ‘Would you think the same if you knew that, had she lived, she would have robbed England of the equivalent of 150 million American dollars?’

He knew about Vesper’s betrayal, about her kidnapped French-Algerian boyfriend (he only needed to see her that one time at their last holiday dinner to realize it), and the only other people whom he knew were privy to that information were his brother Mycroft, who aided in the cover-up, and the highest authorities of MI6 who were personally involved with the case. The story that the others knew was that Vesper was in Venice on official business (somehow, they had convinced people that treasury agents travel internationally all the time) and accidentally walked into a construction site one day as the inflatable supports of a building unexpectedly collapsed and trapped her underwater. Some rumors had spread that she had had a lover with her, but they were left to die as no new information could be found to bolster the claim.

To Sherlock’s delight, Mummy had stopped sending him annoying emails about the _delightful_ government worker that she had met at so-and-so gathering a few days ago and had talked all about her middle son’s secret enthusiasm at the possibility of working in their department and the worker had responded by wanting to meet Sherlock so if Sherlock could _please_ send an email or a call to the information that she attached they could go from there. He did not need to automatically delete anything from her for over a month.

 

* * *

 

 

If the mourners were avoiding Sherlock outright, they were evenly divided between treating John the same way they treated ‘Vesper’s twin’ or silently expressing their sympathies at being with ‘Vesper’s special brother’ which was why John found himself wandering a hallway in search of a restroom. He had wandered around, not wanting particularly to speak with the people who glanced suspiciously or sympathetically his way.

John stopped in front of an innocent-looking door, turned its knob, and almost stepped inside.

It was not a restroom, but rather, a door into a music room. All three of the Holmes brothers stood next to the grand piano in the middle of the room, Sherlock’s fingers ghosting over the ivory keys. Mycroft and Geoffrey seemed too inhibited—ashamed?—to reach out and touch the piano that had been gathering dust for quite some time. Sherlock softly pressed on middle C, and he and Geoffrey flinched at how miserably out of tune it sounded.

“She played piano. Almost as well as I play the violin. Geoffrey plays the flute. Mycroft took voice lessons.” John knew that the comment was directed at him, and watched as the emotions flitted across each brother’s face. After a year, they only had memories and an aging piano to fill the void.

Despite Sherlock’s attempt at detachedness, John could see his grief. He missed Vesper, had loved her in the best way he could. What had happened so that Sherlock never spoke of her?

 

* * *

 

 

_"Vesper, break up with him.” Immediately after the family holiday dinner, Sherlock had pulled his sister into their old playroom to talk. It was the first time Sherlock had ever said something like that to her, and she couldn’t help but flinch at the hardness of his tone._

_“What?”_

_“He’s not who you think he is. He’s hiding things from you.” Vesper had never doubted Sherlock’s deductions before, so why was it different now?_

_“Like what?” her tone was curious, but very wary._

_“I…there’s something about him that isn’t right. There’s something—it goes beyond petty infidelity or abusive dispositions, if that’s all you think about. I don’t know what it is, but he is hiding it.”_

_He would never admit how hurt he feels when he saw Vesper begin to shake hear head slowly, like so many others before her, thinking that he is crazy._

_“Yusef is—.”_

_“A liar. He’s using you, likely for your position in the treasury or—”_

_“Sherlock, stop it.” Vesper’s tone was raw with anger._

_“Leave him.” She flinched and turned away, Sherlock watched as her back heaved in trying to bite back her tears. When she looked up at him again, her eyes were shining but her mouth was set._

_“I’m not leaving him.”_

_“Why not? Observe him; observe the way that he holds—”_

_“We’ve been together five years, Sherlock!”_

_“Sentiment.” He sneered. “Vesper, use your head—”_

_“I am using my head! And it says to follow my heart.”_

_“You can’t even hear your thoughts? It seems to me that all you are doing is listening to the blood that pounds through your ears every time that he lays his hand on you and—”_

_“Can you even hear yourself, or are you too high on drugs to even remember what it means to be a human being?” She had never before sniped at his drug use—she was the first in the family to come to terms with it and it was primarily for her that he had agreed to go to rehab, on the condition that the facility provide him with all of the books and periodicals and means to conduct “safe” experiments that he desired._

_“Vesper…”_

_“No, Sherlock. You’ve said enough.”_

 

* * *

 

 

And look at us now, Sherlock thought, him gone and you dead.

Vesper’s portrait stared back at him, her eyes scintillating.

You were proof. Love is the ultimate weapon of chemical warfare. You always lose. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John learns of Geoffrey’s new situation and why Sherlock never returns Mummy Holmes’s calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of the feedback! I'm very humbled by it all, and hope you enjoy this fic. 
> 
> No beta this chapter.

John was lugging up groceries when he saw Mycroft sitting in his chair again and Sherlock sitting in the opposite one. He was more surprised by how the two looked like they were conspiring, whispering to one another with their heads almost touching. When they noticed John, they paused their conversation but did not entirely separate. John finished putting the groceries away and opted to take a nap before dinner, leaving the two brothers uncharacteristically speaking civilly to one another in the sitting room.

When John descended the stairs, he saw that Mycroft had already left.

Sherlock sat still, fingers tented and mouth twisting in thought. He was probably going to stay like that for at least another hour, John thought as he began to prepare dinner. He set down his bowl of pasta on the table next to the windows when his flatmate spoke.

“Geoffrey has a…boyfriend.” Sherlock struggled with the last word, so alien to his lexicon.

John took a compulsory glance around to see if Sherlock was impossibly addressing anyone else, and said, “Oh.”

“He’s an MI6 agent.”

“MI6?”  

“Yes. they met at his job. He has been training to work in the government since he was sixteen, first working in computer sciences and technology; that’s the earliest that MI6 could get to him, they had been keeping an eye on him for much longer thanks to Mycroft.”

“He might not even be an agent.” John said, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“He is. I followed them last night. Blond, at least 35; stride and comportment are of a military background; Tom Ford tuxedo says accustomed to luxury, tailored trousers and untailored jacket says constant need to replace such items; shoes were recently shined, and striations on his sole show intense, agile activity while wearing such shoes; Omega watch has multiple replacement parts on it and was set five time zones back or seven time zones forward; the tan lines near the back of his neck indicate that he has been abroad in a tropical climate, so northwestern Latin America, the Bahamas, or southeast Asia; scars on his knuckles and calcification of his metatarsals and phalanges are indicative of experience with combat. Geoffrey does not go out seeking dates; traumatic experiences in the past have rendered him wary of even speaking to someone with whom he is not familiar unless the other person initiates the conversation. His job mainly confines him to the lab; where else are internationally travelled, battle-hardened military men commonly found in England but at MI6?”

“You’re concerned about him.” John felt slightly ashamed of how surprised he sounded.

“Of course I am. He is weak, so vulnerable for putting himself in that: involved. Especially with a government agent. This is like—.” Sherlock stopped, choosing to dead-stare at the window.

“Like…?” John probed.

Sherlock seemed to struggle with words for a long time, his gaze flitting from John to his hands to across the room and back to John.

“Like Vesper. She didn’t die in an accident, John.” Sherlock could feel his own pulse quickening, hammering in his temples like he was about to reveal the biggest scandal in history.

John leaned forward, straining to hear Sherlock’s normally sonorous and maddening voice.

“Shortly before her death, MI6 was hunting down Le Chiffre, the money manager of multiple terrorist organizations worldwide. There was to be a high-stakes gambling tournament, in Montenegro, and MI6 was to send an agent to compete. The treasury, in Mycroft’s command of course, also sent an agent to protect their interests.”

“Vesper.” John whispered. Sherlock’s features contorted in anger.

“Out of all of the treasury agents he could have sent, he chose Vesper. He knew—I told him—about her boyfriend’s treachery, about how his kidnapping looked staged. He must have known about Quantum, but wouldn’t act against them. He sent her on the highest-risk gamble of modern history—during which people were murdered—and she was almost killed!” his voice remained softer than a whisper, but John could see Sherlock seething.

“Why didn’t he pull her out if people had been killed?”

“Because 100 million pounds is worth more.” Sherlock looked away, disgusted. “She called me that night, after she saw someone murdered. She risked her entire cover to call me. She could barely talk. I never spoke with her again.”

John let the silence permeate the room: he grappled with both the compulsion to hold Sherlock tightly, to reassure him that life was still worth living and that Vesper would have wanted them all to be happy, and the knowledge that such trite statements had become polite chit-chat and meant even less.

“She betrayed us. And died. For a boyfriend.” The detective’s face became marble again, the expanse of wrinkle-less skin stretching over a gaunt bone structure made John’s stomach sink.

“I saw them when they were returning to Geoffrey’s flat later that night. Geoffrey looked...” Sherlock’s grip on his hands tightened and his eyes became unfocused.

John opted to eat his dinner, and then review the facts over the last case in order to prepare an outline for his next blog entry. He was getting up when Sherlock suddenly grabbed John and dragged him over to the couch, callously pushing his flatmate onto the cushions and looming over him.

“Sherlock—!” John began, struggling to get out from underneath the detective, but Sherlock held him down against the couch using his body. He caught and pinned John’s wiggling legs, pulled their arms down They were closer than they had ever been, to the point that John could feel Sherlock’s body heat through his shirt. Sherlock then went completely still, his features minutely twitching.

“Who would want _this_?  This is—.” His shoulders rolled noncommittally.

For all of his knowledge about facts, effects, and how people worked, Sherlock was completely lost when it came to affection. It was pitiful and annoying and frightening to be around Sherlock, especially like this. Instead of simply pushing Sherlock off and berating him about personal space, something in John decided to try a different plan. The detective was not one to be swayed by talk, by claims and testimony: he needed evidence, experience.

It would be okay, John assured himself. It was just this once, and they could stop at any time.

John shifted his hands and legs so they weren't pinned underneath Sherlock's.

“Well, nobody would enjoy it if you suddenly tackled them and pinned them down. Here, if you would let me…” John slowly pushed himself up and shifted their positions so that Sherlock was lying back against the couch and John was half sitting, half lying next to him. John was about to lean down when he felt Sherlock stiffen and stay rigid despite John’s continued light stroking of his wrist.

Ah, right: Sherlock…probably would not like this position, pinned and vulnerable under John after years of fleeing from bullies and chasing criminals. He could only imagine what Sherlock may have gone through throughout his schooling if people still called him ‘freak’ as adults who knew better.

“Let’s try this instead.” He nudged Sherlock to lie on his side, back against the couch back and head and shoulder molding against the armrest, and lay down on the remaining space so they faced each other. He pushed Sherlock’s left arm out of the space between his shoulder and neck and the armrest of the couch that held his head, and laid his own right arm in the space between them to prevent cramping later on.

“Touching is something that people do to relax. Some do it to feel close to others. It’s gentle, soothing.”

As he spoke, John began to wonder what exactly he was doing and why this was not repulsing him. He thought back to how at ease he always felt with Sherlock, despite all of the experiments and mutual mess sharing and exhibitionist tendencies. Some boundaries did not exist between them, and this seemed to be one of them; especially in this situation. It was its own freedom, being able to touch someone with their permission and not having to be subjected to personal questions.

And Sherlock was undeniably beautiful. His features were a beautiful mélange of archetypal heroes and modern-day gods; as if the science he loved so much had banded together and drew inspiration from the arts to synthesize his face and body.

John’s left hand hovered over Sherlock, mentally noting which area may be the safest to touch. Not the neck, below the waist was off limits, waist may even seem too intimate, arm may not be best if he’s more accustomed to being grabbed...

“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder, right on your deltoids. I won’t push; just lay it there. Alright?” Sherlock nodded once, and John gently placed his hands over the bone. Sherlock felt warm. John tentatively squeezed, and frowned at feeling Sherlock’s tensed muscle underneath, like plaster underneath softened clay.

“Come on, Sherlock. In this situation, people don’t tense up; they don’t feel repelled. This is something you do with only the people you trust the most. Take a deep breath.” John whispered. He was beginning to feel pleasantly drowsy, something about being in a quiet zone and huddling close to another person always did this to him, and he wanted Sherlock to experience at least some pleasant touches. He hoped that Sherlock trusted him to that extent.

To his pleasure, he felt Sherlock’s frame relax and lean more towards him.

“Touch me more.” Sherlock whispered.

“What?” John stopped, shocked at the inconsistency of character he had just heard.

“In other places, John. I need to know how differently this feels in different places. I know people don’t solely touch each other’s shoulders.” Sherlock snapped. There he was again.

John then lightly stroked up and down Sherlock’s arm, inexplicably unable to refuse.

“How does this feel?” John asked, establishing a slow stroking rhythm all along the length.

Sherlock rolled closer to John when the hand was near his shoulder again; John, nonplussed, lightly stroked down his back. They were both visibly relaxed.

Sherlock’s left hand came up and petted at John’s hair, idly tracing lines and circles. John let out a content sigh; he loved it when people stroked along his hairline.

“This...may be why people like this.” Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes slowly.

They stayed like this for an undeterminable amount of time, and were only woken up by Sherlock’s phone buzzing against the table at mid-morning.

Out of habit, John took the phone, swiped his finger across the screen to unlock it, and held it up to his ear.

“Really, Sherlock, it’s a wonderful job--.”

“Mrs. Holmes?” John couldn’t stifle his yawn; he had almost forgotten how wonderful a full night’s sleep felt.

“Oh...Oh! John! Hello!” Mrs. Holmes couldn’t stifle a giggle. “How are you this morning?”

“Good. Very good. Thank you.” Sherlock had suddenly awakened and tried to snatch the phone from John’s hand.

“Is there something—hey!—that you wanted—stop—to tell—Sherlock!”

Sherlock had wrestled the phone out of John’s hand and ended the call without so much as a hello for his mother.

“She only calls if she wants me to tell some member of the bureaucracy how much I want to work under them.” Sherlock flopped back against the couch

“She does that often?”

“Appallingly often. And always something in international affairs.”

“Why does she want you to take the job so badly?”

Sherlock scoffed, “Because she dreamed of being the queen; with all four of her children in the British government— Mycroft in the bureaucracy, Vesper in finance, Geoffrey in MI-6, and I in international affairs—and her as the matriarch, she would be the absolute monarch Elizabeth. She considered changing Mycroft’s name to ‘Charles’ after Vesper and I were born, and she almost named us Anne and Andrew.” John snickered at the thought of Andrew Holmes, Consulting Detective.

“She would have named Geoffrey ‘Edward,’ then.” The askance from Sherlock likely meant that she almost did.

With that, John went into the kitchen to fix breakfast, and 221B settled down into its routine once again. Body parts, Mrs. Hudson, tea, boredom, experiments, blog editing, and without a pinstripe suit and thin umbrella darkening their path for two more days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome (especially about writing Johnlock fluff; I think I'm terrible at it)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft kidnaps John again, essentially for the same reason as last time.

John was having a bad day as it was.

Woken up by a thunderous clash of metal on metal reminiscent of a tank cannon firing; rushing downstairs, half terrified that Moriarty had come back, to find Sherlock testing the vibrational intensity variations for different metals and the resulting sounds recorded on a camera two rooms away; the sandwich he had saved for breakfast being too close to Sherlock’s tray of eyeballs and mold for John to ever touch it without surgeon’s gloves; arriving at the surgery late for his shift and dealing with four cases of hypochondriacs, two screaming children with the flu, and almost being punched in the face by a father after recommending birth control pills for his daughter (to regulate her cycles and alleviate her symptoms: she was borderline anemic every time she menstruated); the sudden downpour that caught him as he was walking home in his work clothes and thin jacket.

When the black, nondescript car rolled alongside him and the door opened, John didn’t even take time to roll his eyes before stepping in.

Anthea welcome him inside by tossing at him a flannel and telling him to take off his wet clothes to dry against the heated seats. Too tired to object, John dried his hair and stripped of his jacket, shoes, and socks. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

After about fifteen minutes, John felt the car slow, and began to redress. Anthea gave him a pair of socks and new shoes, luxurious materials and just his size. He then stepped out of the car and saw Mycroft standing ten feet away. 

Before John had the time to scowl, Mycroft spoke.

“Good afternoon, John. As you may expect, I called you here because I require information.”

“Mycroft, we’ve done this before—”

“What do you know of James Bond?”

“Commander James Bond?” John blurted out.

Mycroft smiled predatorily. “Yes. You know him.” 

“Er…yes. Shortly after I joined the army, we met. He was in the navy at the time. We started talking; a really interesting man, very cynical, but knows what to do…” John stopped; there was no need to tell all of this to Mycroft. 

“Have you contacted him since?” Mycroft's tone trembled at the last few words, giving away an unprecedented urgency that compelled John to answer.

“No.”

Mycroft slouched back an infinitesimal fraction, but quickly recovered.

“I hope, then, that you will find the time to call him soon. And set up an arrangement to chat, to catch up.”

“And why would I do that?” 

Mycroft stared him down and drew a silent breath.

“Mr. Bond has flitted in and out of our family’s life, and has left an indelible impression each time. He is back again, and is now in a precarious situation.”

John began going over what he remembered about the commander; stoic and composed, practical and deadly accurate with weapons and combat, blond.

“He’s Geoffrey’s boyfriend.”

“Precisely.” Mycroft’s posture stiffened and his eyes sharpened. Something in the way that he carried himself, like the mother bear in sensing danger near her cubs, awakened a voice in the back of John’s head that compelled him to do what Mycroft wanted. 

"This is why I need you to re-ingratiate yourself with Mr. Bond, John. To find out why he and Geoffrey have chosen to cross their professional boundary. Our family has...many personal reasons to become involved.

“Mycroft, I spoke briefly with Geoffrey a few months ago but I don’t think that he needs you or Sherlock to monitor the people he chooses to date.”

“Once again, you misconstrue my intentions, John.”

“Maybe this time, you ought to tell me exactly what you are trying to do and why you want to do it.” The soldier replied tersely.

Mycroft grew still, studying the man who had trusted Sherlock so quickly and who had transformed Sherlock so profoundly.

“It is exactly because Mr. Bond has chosen Geoffrey that I am concerned. He is no longer in the Navy; he is an agent for MI6, with double-O status. When Vesper died in Venice, she had become an unwilling pawn in the terrorist organization Quantum, due to her boyfriend’s kidnapping, and almost stole 100 million pounds from the treasury. The double-O agent was in Venice with her when she drowned; he had resigned from MI-6 briefly to pursue a pedestrian life with her.

“Since he was allegedly killed in action months ago, all of his files were erased as MI-6 protocol dictated; Geoffrey had not yet finished training and had no access to Q-branch yet, and therefore did not see any of Bond’s old files. He still does not know that Vesper and James collaborated on a mission, that James briefly resigned from MI-6 for her or that her real cause of death was covered up.”

“And you think Commander Bond has an ulterior motive for dating Geoffrey?” John could taste how wrong those words felt in his mouth.

“Possibly. I need to know if it is serious threat. And I need you, with a previously established relation with him, to find out more about him without arousing suspicion.”

“Sounds to me like you’re more trying to assuage your own guilt about Vesper’s death.”

Mycroft did not even blink in response. “Sherlock has already told you everything he knows. Hmm. I was not expecting that of him; he’s fiercely protective of her memory, rarely willing to talk about her.”

They stared at each other in silence for the next few minutes.

“She volunteered for the mission, John, undoubtedly because Quantum threatened her into it. I knew, but I could not do anything: deliberately stopping her would have raised more eyebrows in our direction. She had already had to change her surname to Lynd to avoid any more charges of nepotism against her. If she had not been given the mission, I cannot fathom what she would have done or what Quantum would have done to her. They had already invested too heavily in her to simply let her go, and they must have also known about her connection to me. To them, she was the perfect bait. Used in any way, they were assured to get their money.” Mycroft looked away wearily, suddenly aged ten years. 

“Sherlock does not know of anything I just told you. Neither does Geoffrey. And I would prefer to keep things that way. Will you do it?”

“What about what Geoffrey wants? He is the one who is in the relationship: he ought to have a say in this.” John said.

“He would not understand. I think it’s my fault, you know. That they met. Bond and I attended the same university. I invited him to spend winter holiday with my family. Vesper and Sherlock were travelling with Mummy, leaving father, Geoffrey, and me at the manor. Geoffrey was seven then, Bond just turned twenty-two, about to go into the Navy. Father had made Geoffrey wear a sailor suit for the occasion, earning a chuckle out of my normally stoic acquaintance.

“Even then, Geoffrey seemed to show a…liking for him, and Bond seemed to reciprocate and take him in as the brother that he had never had. After the first day they met, I couldn’t tell you how many times I found Geoffrey sitting in Bond’s lap, talking animatedly until he had to fall asleep. Like with Sherlock, we knew that Geoffrey was special from an early age; none of his schoolmates could talk about what he was interested in, and those who could never took him seriously at first due to his age. Bond seemed to take pleasure in carrying a conversation with Geoffrey, improvising when Geoffrey’s thoughts became too arcane for Bond to understand. At the time, it seemed endearing; Geoffrey had a friend. You should have seen him, John, flourishing…

“I doubt that Bond remembers Geoffrey, but Geoffrey never forgot. You know, he became withdrawn after reading Commander Bond’s obituary. A few months ago, he was almost too excited for words when he found out that he would be _his_ quartermaster.”

They stood in silence for a few more minutes; John because he did not know what to say, Mycroft because he was biding his time for the most opportune moment to ask.

“You understand now, why this development is of utmost importance to us and why we need you.”

“But why are you telling me all of this? Or involving me for the matter? Like you said, this is a family matter for you.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “I thought that Sherlock had made it clear by now, John, that you _are_ family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal update: 
> 
> It's finals time at my university, and I'm going to start applying to post-graduate education programs this upcoming summer, so my upates to this fic will be sporadic, at best. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and I hope you enjoy this fic


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